


The Angel of Apple Valley

by therealgloria



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealgloria/pseuds/therealgloria
Summary: When the storm is over, new green shoots spring up. Sobriety breeds clarity, and clarity can be rather frightening when it means realizing you're in love...





	1. Everything Could Be So Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a prompt response/gift. It's got a fair number of chapters, so I'll post the first one and see how it goes over. Please let me know if you'd like to read more.

**Los Angeles, California, May 1985 ******

This is never going to work, Izzy thought, watching Steven with dismay. Good drummer, but the kid had about a thousand pieces on that set. The rack toms, the kick pedals... too much, all of it. Too much noise, and not the right sound, too much of a heavy-metal setup. He glanced at Duff, who was sitting on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him, fiddling with the tuning pegs on his Fender. They had to be on the same page, right? Duff hadn’t hauled his ass down here to play in some Californian, head banging metal group, the same old shit that everyone was doing. He knew it, Izzy thought, keeping his eyes on Duff, hoping to catch his eye. Sure enough, Duff looked up from his bass, glanced at the set, and then at Izzy. He cracked a smile and cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly, which made Izzy grin. Of course they were thinking the same thing. 

He watched as Steven stopped playing and Axl leaned forward in his chair in front of the guy, talking about songs, about what they wanted to hear next. Izzy took his chance while the noise had stopped and got up from the floor, leaving his guitar in the corner, and crossed the room behind Axl. Duff’s eyes stayed on Izzy as he came towards him, and Izzy felt very self-aware as he sat down next to him. 

“Dude...” Duff whispered. “This is not what I thought we were going for.” 

“It’s not,” Izzy agreed. “Steven’s not bad, though.” 

“No, no, not at all, he’s just got too much shit,” Duff murmured, plunking strings up and down the neck of his bass. “Izzy, we gotta get rid of some of that.” 

“Yeah, I think so too.” 

Izzy watched Duff as the drumming started up again. He was watching Steven and tapping his foot along with the backbeat, fiddling around with the bass, the corners of his mouth slightly turned up. Izzy chuckled and Duff glanced at him, catching his eye again. Izzy knew they were sharing thoughts. 

The drumming stopped again. 

“That sounds good man, that sounds good,” Axl said. 

“Thanks,” Steven answered, rotating his wrist. 

“I’ve got just one more tune to try out, it’s one we wrote, I just wanna see how it fits.” 

“Sure, no problem. But sorry, first, dude, I gotta piss.” 

“We don’t have a bathroom. We just go outside.” 

Steven shrugged and set down his sticks on his snare. “I’ll be back in a sec.” He got up and went out the door, his sneakers thumping down the apartment stairs. 

“So what do you guys think?” Slash piped up, but Duff had already gotten to his feet and started walking over to the set. 

“He’s good, but something’s off, it’s just not quite right,” Axl said, tilting back in his chair. “Duff, what are you doing?” 

“Izzy, c’mere. Hurry.” 

Izzy got to his feet and went over to Duff, who had picked up one of the stands of rack toms. 

“Go open the hall closet for me and then come back and get the other one,” Duff instructed, hoisting the drums up to his chest and hugging them against his body so they wouldn’t fall. 

“Hey, what the fuck are you guys doing?” Slash asked, sounding mildly alarmed as Izzy hurried down the hallway and yanked open the door before slipping past Duff and getting his arms around the other set of rack toms. 

“Helping,” Duff answered, holding the door open for Izzy as he crammed them in beside the vacuum cleaner, which was gathering dust. “Okay thanks Iz, now hurry and go sit back down and let’s see what happens.” 

“Don’t worry,” Axl said to Slash, who looked slightly scandalized. “You’ll give them back, won’t you?” 

“Sure,” Izzy answered, plopping back down on the couch. “We’re not tryin’ to rob the guy.” 

“No, of course not. Just helping,” Duff said again, sitting back down too and winking at Izzy, who felt his stomach jump a little. 

The door swung back open and Steven came back in. 

“Okay, sorry about that. Where were we?” 

Axl explained what it was they wanted him to play as Steven re-settled himself in front of his set, Axl not even cracking a smile to give them away, for which Izzy was grateful. Slash crossed his arms. Steven nodded at Axl and twirled his sticks again, glancing down at his kit. 

“Hey, wait, hold on. What happened to my other drums?” he exclaimed, looking around himself as if they had fallen and rolled away, somehow unnoticed. “Where the fuck did my drums go?” 

Izzy’s shoulders shook slightly, a laugh about to bubble out of him, and Duff pressed his knee into Izzy’s, warning him to restrain himself. This worked remarkably well, the laugh dying in Izzy’s throat. He swallowed jerkily, glancing at Duff, whose eyes were on Steven. 

“I don’t know man. Are you sure there's something missing? Could just try the song with the kit as is, for now?” Axl asked. 

“I guess,” Steven said doubtfully, looking around himself once more. “They were _just here._ ” 

Axl sang the intro again and Steven re-positioned his sticks and began to drum, forgetting about the rack toms for the moment. Izzy sat up a little straighter. Yes. That was it. _That_ was the sound. It was a lot closer anyway. He looked at Duff next to him. His light eyes shone with satisfaction, his foot tapping along again. He thought so too. 

When Steven finished, Duff grinned. “Tight! That was tight.” 

“You think so?” Steven smiled, twirling his sticks. “Thanks, dude.” 

“For sure. It’s clean. I like it.” 

“Me too,” Izzy said. “Nice work, man.” 

Stephen beamed, his sticks twirling faster. “Axl? Slash? What do you guys think?” 

Axl nodded. “Fits good.” Slash merely nodded. 

As Axl went to get some water and Steven and Slash began taking parts of the kit apart, getting ready to leave, Duff laughed his throaty laugh and turned to face Izzy, lighting up a cigarette. 

“Well, then.” 

“We’re taking the second kick pedal and the cymbals next,” Izzy whispered. 

Duff shook his hair out of his eyes and laughed again. “You got it.” He offered Izzy the cigarette, who took it, closing his lips on the same paper that Duff’s had been around moments before. 

“That’s our guy,” Izzy declared, handing it back to him, the bass callouses on Duff’s fingers meeting his. “I’ve decided.” 

“Well alright then,” Duff said. “If you’ve decided he’s our guy, then I guess he’s our guy.” He smiled at Izzy, who felt a tug in his stomach again. “Easy as that.” 

“We gotta find out what Axl thinks first, though.” 

“Izzy,” Duff said, blowing smoke out his nose, “we both know that if you’ve decided, that’s what’ll happen. You, my friend, are the heavyweight of this organization.” 

Izzy laughed. “Right.” 

“Just you wait,” Duff leaned back, stretching his tall body. “You’ll see.” 

\--- 

******6 miles west of Needles, California, March 1994** ** **

So much for _that_ , Izzy thought. 

>He stared down into his unsweetened iced tea, swirling it around in the glass. Funny how times change but the feelings never do. 

He sighed, looking up at the TV in the corner of the empty bar, MTV playing quietly. This was just one of those days. He sipped his tea and scribbled curlicues on the notepad in front of him, resting his chin in his hand and watching the ink sputter out of the pen, allowing his thoughts to wonder. Some days the ideas flowed like a river, and some days his mind was quiet. Everything could be so quiet sometimes. 

He set down the pen and looked up and out of the window, out at the road cutting through the desert. The sun was at its three o’ clock position, lazily slow-baking the sand. The cacti and Joshua trees stood stalwart against the breeze that was rattling the multi-colored wind chimes on the porch, which Izzy could hear faintly through the glass. 

God, he missed Duff. He let his head drop onto his arms, feeling his heart ache stubbornly throughout his body. It was still hard sometimes and that ache surfaced from time to time, and the feeling of emptiness where Duff should be could be so conspicuous. Izzy hadn’t realized it at the time, young as he was - but over the years it had become clearer than ever - that the easy connection he had found with Duff wasn’t something you got every day. It wasn’t easy to just find someone like that, and quickly get that mutual understanding and level of comfort, to operate on the same wavelength that effortlessly. Izzy had discovered that he could not get that with many people; in fact, most people downright annoyed him. 

Izzy sighed again, running his hand through his dreads. He hadn’t called his him in months. There was a time, from around June of ‘92 to April of ’93, where they had talked often, sometimes up to three times a week. But that had tapered off and, eventually, ended. 

Izzy knew that not everyone could let go of addiction as completely as he had forced himself to do. But at the same time, so much of what he had seen in Duff was beginning to be blotted out by the booze, and that, of all the bullshit that had happened, was what Izzy couldn’t stand. Couldn’t stand to hear the life go out of Duff’s voice, and the quickness go out of his laugh. He never saw him, but Izzy knew that if he had, he would have seen the keen gleam fading out of his eyes, unable to penetrate the haze. And so the calls stopped. Izzy, unwilling to hurt himself more and more by continuing to watch the downward spiral, and Duff, forgetting to call in his stupor, or, maybe, ashamed to. Or maybe Izzy didn’t mean to Duff what Duff meant to Izzy, and he just didn’t care enough. Izzy wasn’t sure. 

In any case, Izzy thought, gulping down some iced tea to uncramp his throat, it was over now, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t do for Duff what Duff wouldn't do for himself, and that was the hard fucking truth; and if Duff didn’t want to talk to him, he wasn’t going to force it. 

Heavyweight, my ass, Izzy thought sourly, pushing the fruitless notepad away and draining his glass. For a while, yeah, but my god, how times change. 

He set down three one dollar bills on the counter and headed for the door. Maybe he’d play a little guitar on the porch before he left. 

\--- 

**Seattle, Washington, March 1994**

Duff rolled over, open eyes meeting darkness, a sick feeling hitting him in his midsection almost as soon as he woke up. He coughed and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He squinted at the red glint of the alarm clock - it was one o’ clock in the afternoon. He yawned, making his jaw ache, and turned on the lamp. The light hurt his eyes and he turned away, swinging his legs out of bed and fingering an oozing sore on his leg, wincing. He put his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, the bad feeling in his midsection intensifying as he felt several small clumps come out between his knuckles, which he just let fall to the floor on top of the dirty clothes. Such a fucking mess. 

He slowly got up, body aching, and made his way to the bathroom that was connected to the master bedroom he called his own. The bathroom was a mess too, more dirty clothes and some empty bottles, and a packet of rocks on the counter. 

Duff brushed his teeth,which made his gums hurt, and splashed his face with water. It was kind of hard to look at himself in the mirror, at his bloated body and broken out skin, so he tried not to. He shucked the boxers he was wearing and started up a shower, examining the sores on his hips, ass, and feet. These days, it wasn't even worth working up the energy to be concerned. 

He pissed in the shower, and he could feel his midsection ache as it came out. He didn’t know what to wash his sores with, so he just tentatively rinsed over them with Dove, which made them sting, and he washed his dick with the same thing, rubbing off the gunky buildup that had accumulated over the past few days of no showers. He turned off the water halfheartedly and stepped out onto the bathmat, drying off his legs and tousling his hair. 

He stepped out of the bathroom, turning off the light, and pulled on a clean pair of boxers before opening the blinds on his window. It was overcast but not stormy. He grabbed the half-finished bottle of wine off the bedside table and headed downstairs. 

Taking a swallow as he walked, he passed through the airy kitchen and straight onto the back porch, where he sat down on the cedar two-seater swing that hung from the ceiling. There were carvings on the back, and Duff traced a finger along them as he took another sip from the merlot. His fingertips hurt, too. Actually, every inch of his body hurt - his head, his eyes, his nose, his chest, his insides. He couldn’t even breathe through his nose, just his mouth, so his throat hurt too. 

Duff stared out at the green rolling hills that were almost right in his backyard and listened to his heartbeat pounding away resignedly in his head. He drank some more wine. It’d been a while since he’d heard from any of the Guns guys. He’d talked to Axl before he went on tour for Believe in Me, but only once since he got back and not since then. Slash, who wasn’t good with communication, he hadn’t heard from at all. He’d talked to Matt once about three weeks ago, but he was busy with his own shit. Gilby, Duff wasn’t close with and probably never would be. And then of course, there was Izzy... when was the last time he’d talked to Izzy? It seemed like ages. Where even was Izzy? What was he doing? Duff realized he didn’t know. It would probably be good for him, to talk to Izzy... he would understand... 

It was so hard though, Duff thought. Izzy was gone, like the wind down the road, and here he was still, drinking from dawn to dusk and still nursing this damn cocaine habit, stuck in the same old situation. So many memories of him, though... they hit Duff in a wave and almost overwhelmed him. Izzy playing his guitar night and day, “noodling,” as he liked to call it. Izzy, playing that damn Georgia Satellites album over and over until everyone was driven to distraction. Izzy, banging on the kit along to the Ramones whenever he was frustrated. 

Sighing, Duff remembered how they used to talk to each other until the morning, laughing at times, serious at times; he had shared everything with him, really, because he could, because Izzy made it so easy. It was a comforting thing, talking to Izzy, but as much as Duff missed him, it wasn’t right anymore, really, because Izzy had moved on and he couldn’t. Still, lord, it had been a while. 

Wonder what Izzy would say if he could see me now, Duff thought dully. He drank some more wine. 


	2. On Down the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know it’s a lot to ask, but... would you come stay with me? Here in Seattle?”

**Apple Valley, California, May 12 1994**

The sound of the phone woke Izzy up. He was a light sleeper, the phone was only on its second ring. He groaned, cleared his throat, and picked up.

“Hi, this is Izzy.”

“Hey Izzy, it’s Matt.”

Izzy frowned and sat straight up in bed, glancing at the clock. It was seven in the morning, and he hadn’t heard from Matt since he’d left Guns, they weren’t close . Something was wrong. His stomach knotted itself up anxiously more quickly than he’d thought possible, and he gripped the phone a little tighter.

“Matt? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Izzy heard Matt take an unsteady breath and then let out a gusty sigh. Izzy gripped the phone even tighter.

“Matt. Matt, what is it? You’re scaring me, man.”

“Izzy... it’s Duff.”

Izzy inhaled sharply involuntarily, the bottom dropping out of his stomach and his heart constricting. So here it was at last, the call he’d been dreading... God, why hadn’t he called him more? And now it was too late. Jesus...

“He’s not dead.”

“What? He’s not? He’s alive?” Relief flooded Izzy’s body and he hung his head between his knees, emotion overwhelming him. “What is it then? What’s going on?”

“He’s in the hospital, Izzy. His pancreas... well, his pancreas exploded.”

Izzy stared at the floor in shock. He didn’t say anything. Matt took this silence as the invitation to continue.

“I don’t know how much you’ve been talking to him lately, but he’s been doing real bad. Quit vodka and took up wine, but way too much of it. And way too much coke. He’s been wasting away Izzy, just wrecking himself. He’s got this house in Seattle now and he’s just there by himself, doing this shit. And, well, it caught up with him, I guess. His friend Andy found him.”

Izzy swallowed hard. “It _exploded_?” he said hoarsely.

“That’s what they said. This was two days ago. Burned his insides. He’ll be lucky if he makes it another five years, and regardless he’s going to be taking meds for the rest of his life. He can never drink again, obviously.”

Izzy was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, man.”

“Is he back home yet?”

“No, dude. He’ll be at the Northwest Hospital for another week.”

“Oh.” Izzy was quiet for a moment. “Matt, could you give me the phone number?”

“The phone number? Yeah sure, give me a second...” there were some rustling noises. “Ready? It’s two-oh-six, three-six-four, zero-five-zero-zero.”

Izzy scribbled it down into the notebook on his bedside table. “Thanks Matt. And thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. I’ll talk to you later, Izzy, I’m going to call the other guys. I thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

“Thanks, you thought right. Bye, Matt.”

“Bye.”

Izzy slowly set the phone back on its cradle. He stared at it for a second before lying back down in bed, curling up on his side and squeezing his pillow tight. Duff... Jesus Christ. He was so lucky to be alive. But the pain that he must be in was almost unimaginable. Izzy buried his face in his pillow, feelings and memories sweeping over him, wave after wave, rendering him helpless. How had things gotten this way? They had been so invincible once, Izzy thought, so unstoppable, so confident and thoughtless of time. God, he missed the eighties, Duff’s lopsided smile taunting him good-naturedly, the quick banter he would engage Izzy in in an hour of boredom. Izzy had loved that. They would drink together sometimes. Duff could always outdo him, though. Izzy would be close to blacking out, and Duff would just laugh and laugh. But they took care of each other, never let anyone say anything bad about the other; Duff was that way about the whole band. And the conversations they would have about punk rock went on endlessly, Duff always did think Izzy’s history with Naughty Women and The Atoms was cool...

And now, Izzy thought, rolling onto his back, he didn’t know what to do. Not to contact Duff was unthinkable, but at the same time, maybe there was a reason Duff hadn’t contacted him yet. It had been two days. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Or maybe, Izzy thought despairingly, Duff just didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t want to push him into something he wasn’t comfortable with. But, dammit, when someone’s pancreas explodes, you don’t just say nothing. Do you? Izzy covered his face with his hands. He would wait. That’s what he would do. He would wait, and if he still hadn’t heard from him in a week, he would call. Izzy stared at the ceiling, his fan whirring around and around. Duff... it seemed like just yesterday, it really did. What could he be doing right now? What was he thinking about? Izzy wondered if he knew he was being thought of, if he could feel it. In all reality, Izzy thought, Duff probably was on so much medication that he wasn’t thinking about much of anything at the moment.

Izzy laid in bed for another hour, watching the room brighten as the sun came up, and thinking. Duff always had been one of the worst. He was such a highly functional addict for such a long time, though, that it was hard to believe that it had finally caught up with him. Duff had never cared much about the fact that he was probably going to die young and he’d told Izzy as much - he had no fear, really, which Izzy understood and even respected, in a way. It was better than some, those addicts that deluded themselves until the end. Duff had never been like that, but shades of that mentality had been creeping in for a while, which Izzy knew from their frequent phone calls last year. It was hard to watch, and in the end, impossible for Izzy to continue being so close to. No matter how much he loved him, and he did. Lord, how he did.

Izzy sat up and got out of bed, folding back his knit blanket that he’d gotten in Mexico three years ago. He stretched and walked to the kitchen, naked as he usually was when he woke up - he got hot easily, and even sleeping with the windows open, inevitably overheated during the night and sleepily kicked his shorts off. He turned on the coffee pot and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing. It was quite a bit of news that Duff would never be able to touch alcohol again. Izzy could scarcely imagine him without a bottle of vodka, much less completely dry. It was a weird thought. He could only imagine how Duff felt about that ultimatum. Izzy wondered again if he was conscious, if he was able to talk; if he was taking visitors in the hospital, if Slash and Axl were already there. He wanted to be there for him to, but he wasn’t his bandmate anymore, and they were. Did that mean something? Izzy poured himself a mug of black coffee and went over to the armchair facing the French doors, crossing his legs and wrapping his hands around the cup. He looked down at his own bare body, wondering what Duff’s looked like nowadays. When Izzy had last seen him, at those five shows in ’93, he had looked pretty good - not as great as he used to, but pretty good. It had been a year, though, and Matt had said that he’d switched over to wine, which would be hell on the body in quantities that large. Izzy took a swallow of his coffee and looked back down at himself again. He looked pretty good. He’d put on muscle in the past couple years. He’d never be built, but he’d filled out more. He was tan, too. Izzy drank some more coffee. This was painful. Why was he sitting here, doing nothing? It felt so wrong. He shifted in his chair, that stubborn ache of his heart returning. Was he wanted? Was he unwanted? How would he be received? Maybe there was a reason they’d stopped talking, maybe Duff resented him for leaving more than he’d realized. Maybe he’d said something wrong. Maybe Duff felt betrayed. Maybe he felt abandoned. They had been best friends, after all, and Izzy had just up and left. And Duff _had_ been angry with him, which Izzy would never forget. His throat cramped up. Maybe he still was, maybe he only wanted the comfort of those that had stayed with him. Wasn’t he the heavyweight? Izzy thought. Wasn’t that what Duff had said? He drank more coffee.

There had been times when the alcohol was an issue. It took Duff away, and Izzy hated that, especially after ’89 when he’d finally managed to clean up his act. Everything got harder, after that. Izzy didn’t like all the booze and the drugs, and Duff knew it, and didn’t like the feeling that that knowledge gave him. And so, Izzy thought bitterly, he had unwittingly pushed Duff away towards Slash, who wouldn’t make him feel wrong for smoking crack, who was only too happy to drink with him. And so Izzy, resentful at the unfairness but resigned, drank his tea alone, rode his bus to the tour dates, and took solace in Treader, the only other being besides Duff that could calm Izzy’s spirits while Duff was out of commission.

Izzy stared at the French doors for a second before standing straight up, his mug falling out of his lap and shattering on the wood floor. He turned and ran back into his bedroom, his heart pounding, yanking the phone off the cradle and staring at the piece of paper he had scribbled the number down on two hours ago. He fumbled with the phone before punching it in, heart pounding as it rang. 

“Hello, Northwest Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

“Hello,” Izzy said thickly, and cleared his throat. “Could I speak to a patient, please?”

“That depends, sir,” the lady on the other end said. “What room number?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have one. I want to speak to Duff McKagan.” He paused for a second. “This is Izzy   
Stradlin.”

“Oh, I see,” said the woman. “Sure, one second please, I just need to check the records to see what room he’s in and I’ll send you up there.”

“Okay, thank you,” Izzy said, twisting the piece of paper with the phone number between his fingers. 

What was he going to say to Duff? What was Duff going to say to him? What if he hung up? What if he didn’t even answer?

“Sorry about that, I found it. He’s on the fourth floor, I’ll send your call to his room.”

“Thanks so much,” Izzy rasped.

“My pleasure.” The phone clicked and was quiet for a moment before starting to ring again. His heart pounded, and he started ripping up the piece of paper; first in halves, then in fourths, then in eighths. 

The phone clicked.

“Hullo?”

Izzy ripped the pieces into sixteenths. “Is that you? Duff?”

There was silence.

“Duff?”

“ _Izzy?_ ” God, he sounded terrible, but it was so good to hear Duff’s voice saying his name again.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Izzy. How are you feeling?”

There was more silence, and Izzy’s fear returned. But then - but then, was that Duff _crying_?

“Duff? Duff, are you okay?”

“Izzy...” Duff _was_ crying. “Izzy, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

Izzy was alarmed. Close as they had been, he’d never heard Duff cry before. “I know. I know you did. But it’s okay.”

“I’m... not crying... because I fucked up,” Duff choked out. “I’m crying... because... I missed you. I’ve missed you, Izzy.”

Izzy looked up, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I’ve missed you too. Shh, stop crying. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Duff said softly. His voice was hoarse, and he sounded sick. “I almost fucking died, it would’ve been better if I had. I’d rather die than go through the fucking agony I’ve been through in the last seventy two hours. I should have died. I shouldn’t be alive, Izzy.”

“Don’t say that,” Izzy said. “Fuck, you’re going to make me cry too.”

“No, don’t,” Izzy heard Duff inhale loudly, his nose running. “I’m sorry, it’s just such a relief to hear your voice. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Izzy said, twisting a loose thread on his bedspread, fighting to control his voice, which was shaking slightly. “I’m just so glad that you’re alive.”

There was muffled silence on the other end and then the sound of Duff blowing his nose. Izzy twisted the thread harder. So Duff had missed him after all. Missed him enough to cry at the sound of his voice. Hope, Izzy thought was a fickle thing.

“Izzy?” Duff croaked.

“Yeah?”

“Could you... do you think you could do something for me?”

Izzy’s heart began to speed up again. “Yeah.” He paused, and decided to take a chance. “Anything.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but... would you come stay with me? Here in Seattle?”

Izzy’s eyes widened. “Stay with you?”

 

“Yeah. I have this big house up here now, you know, and when I get out of here and go home, it’ll be just me, and...” Duff didn’t finish.

“Yeah. Yeah. I understand,” Izzy said quickly. Of course he would go, if that was what Duff wanted, but...  
“Duff, how long would you want me to stay?”

“How long?” Duff said blankly. “Shit, Izzy, I don’t know. Could we just play it by ear?”

“Sure,” Izzy answered. “I’m good at that.”

“I know you are,” Duff chuckled feebly.

“Well, when do you want me to head your way?”

“When?” Duff repeated again. “Like... as soon as possible?”

Izzy laughed. “As fast as my wings can carry me, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” Izzy looked around his room. “Well I guess I’ll start packing, then.”

“Really?” he sounded relieved and tired. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, of course,” Izzy had already started moving around the room, opening his dresser drawers and throwing t-shirts onto his bed. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” Duff said sleepily. “I’m gonna rest now. Bye, Iz.”

Izzy smiled and held the phone with both hands. “Bye. See you soon.”

_Click_.

Izzy stared out his window. That had gone very differently from what he expected. And, he thought, moving back to his dresser, he always did seem to find himself in this situation, blown down the road once again by his heart. But it was a good kind of drifting, especially when he knew that soon, he’d be drifting back to Duff.

Izzy got out his old battered green suitcase and folded most of the contents of his bottom two drawers into it - shorts and shirts, and a couple pairs of jeans. It was still chilly in Washington this time of year. He grabbed some sweatshirts and set them on top, along with a tall stack of clean boxer briefs. Out of the bathroom, he grabbed only his toothbrush and toothpaste - Duff would probably have anything else he needed, and if he didn’t, Izzy would just buy it when he got there. From the top of the dresser, he put the first item of dress on his body - his wooden necklace. Faded jeans and a purple button-down followed, and he slid his feet into his Adidases. Lifting his suitcase, Izzy took the Mexican blanket and a pillow off of his bed before turning out the light and heading downstairs. He’d just sleep in the car.

He put the bag in the back of his Camaro and the pillow and blanket in the passenger’s seat. All his favorite CDs were already in the car, nothing he needed to add. He’d just stop for food along the way, no need to delay departure, and god knew he could afford it. His heart, Izzy realized, hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d gotten off of the phone. The anxiety and excitement of getting to see Duff, the offer to stay, the speed of the change and the weight of his feelings was almost too much to handle while staying still - he was just ready to move and be on his way. Izzy took a final walk around the house, locking the doors and windows, looking for anything he might have forgotten. Downstairs again, he grabbed his bags and went out the front, locking that door behind him too. Onwards and upwards, he thought, whistling to himself, his heartbeat like a set of rack toms as he spun his keys around on his fingers. Keep moving along.


End file.
